Tata Jesus is Bangala!
by SilverLastsForever
Summary: A chapter I wrote from the point of view of Nathan Price from Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible. This takes place right before he accidently kills all the children in the river.


Exodus 2

_Nathan Price_

Kasai River 1983

Crazy they call me. They think I'm crazy. They look at my long white beard and they see me twitch with fleas. _Many are the afflictions of the righteous: but the Lord deliverth him out of them all._ This is my penance. God will reward me for my penance. The walls of my church the New Church of Eternal Life, Jesus is Bangala. The walls covered with filth the dirt floors empty of seating, empty of people. This church passes audible judgement. The eyes of this church, my church, drives me mad with the silent whispers. The whispers deafen me.

"It's not my fault!" I scream tearing at my hair, "She was not to die! She was to be baptized!"

Ruth May. Ruth May. Ruth May. Her face stares down at me from these filthy walls. Poor Ruth May, my youngest child. Damned for all eternity. Damned because of me.

"I am righteous!"

They think I'm crazy because I sit here. Because I scream for no reason. I scream to keep me sane. _And if we are careful to obey all this law before the Lord our God, as he has commanded us, that will be our righteousness._ My own daughter fell to the serpent. God punished me for failing my mission.

"I will not fail!"

Children. All those children who will die. This is Africa, they all die sooner than later. Their faithless, heathen parents will do nothing to protect them. God sent me here to protect the tiny, swollen, black children who flee from the right. They flea. Flea like the bugs when I scratch my neck. I will not be stopped.

"God sent me this mission!"

_The righteousness of the blameless makes a straight way for them, but the wicked are brought down by their own wickedness._ She was blameless. Ruth May was blameless. She was sacrificed for my sins. My failure. This is my penance. I must baptize the children.

They call my Tata Prize around here. I am something of a pariah. No one wants to save themselves. No one wants to save their children. To save them I must steal them. I walk out of my church. My faithless, filthy church. They think I will turn into a crocodile and eat them. Eat all the children. Even if this was so, at least before this crocodile devours them they will be saved. To save them I must steal them. These Africans; they let their children run wild. Even with me around. Me whom they hate and fear for reasons I can not understand. I do not wish to understand their heathen ways. _In the way of righteousness there is life; along that path is immortality. _There is no other path. The single way in the Congo to God is through me. Through the Lord. Through baptism. There is no other path.

"Tata Prize?"

I look up, there is a young girl standing there. I walk towards her. She is frightened. Frightened by crazy Nathan Price. I must not fail my mission.

"Child?" I ask, "Do you have brothers? Sisters?"

She nods slowly as if having trouble comprehending. I have no doubt she did.

"Bring them to me. Bring your friends."

The little girl ran away. I had no idea if she was going to come back. _My soul faints with longing for your salvation, but I have put my hope_ _in your word._ The Good Lord would deliver these children to me. They are all his children and he wishes them to be saved. God wants me to save these children.

I sit alone on the path for hours. Hours, minutes, hours. My skin is on fire as it always is now. It's interesting how we grow so use to pain. So use to sin. So use to the fire ants crawling up and down your limbs, the malaria seeping in, the heathen air that stifles. So use to this dismal life. That is why I must save them! How can they not see?

"Saved! Follow me and you shall be saved!"

The scream leaves my lungs and the little girl appears. She is not alone. She has her brothers and several other children with her. They all stare at me, waiting for me to turn into a crocodile and eat them. These African children, they do not fear death yet they fear the savior of their souls? They embrace death, coming running towards. And who can blame these poor, mutilated, starving children? Death seems a beautiful reprise. And through me, through God it can be. I stand up and the bible in my lap drops to the ground, forgotten. Bending down to pick it up I realize that they are still staring at me; unblinkingly. Accusingly.

"It's not my fault! It's your fault! She was to be baptized with you!"

They are startled and I feared they may run. Still they are used to crazy Tata Prize and his insane screams. I hold up the bible walking towards them.

"Tata Jesus is Bangala! Tata Jesus is Bangala!"

They flinch. To heathens the Lord's name is like the damned poisonwood trees they have around here. I lead them silently down to the river bank reciting prayer at them until they stopped flinching. I had a boat ready. They tried to run when they say the boat in the river. The first signs of life. I carried as many as I could and placed them in the boat kicking off to make sure they didn't escape.

"You will be saved! The Lord wills it so!"

_So this will be the end._

Tata Jesus is Bangala.


End file.
